


contractual obligations

by aalphard, hoetaku97



Series: to love a monster [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Blood and Gore, Deal with a Devil, Demon Miya Atsumu, Horror, Knives, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Near Death Experiences, Self-Inflicted Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 04:55:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29879397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aalphard/pseuds/aalphard, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoetaku97/pseuds/hoetaku97
Summary: “Alright, I’m gonna break this down for ya nice and slow, so listen good, because I don’t like repeating myself. You sold yer soul to me while you were knocking down death’s door simply because I am a gracious and merciful demon with selfless motives who offered you a way out. Your soul now officially belongs to me, and I will come to collect my end of the bargain at an unspecified later date. Congratu-fucking-lations Omi-kun, you just got a second chance at life. Don’t fuck it up; I don’t make contracts with just anyone, ya know.”or the five times atsumu willingly comes to him and the one time kiyoomi is the one who summons him.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Series: to love a monster [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2196816
Comments: 12
Kudos: 93





	contractual obligations

**Author's Note:**

> it finally happened... after four months of yelling about it on twitter, demon!atsumu is finally here!
> 
> PLEASE BE MINDFUL OF THE TAGS!!!!
> 
> you can find the playlist to this fic [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0AwOhvXtwcIjuduZrmby8x?si=IXSH2cqiRkSwvRAmsuGq2g)!

**1\. the deal with the devil**

It starts with the trembling of the earth through the soles of his shoes, the grinding of the engines and the silent screams of the metal as it hits metal and stone. It starts with the sounds of ancient madness seeping through the seams, a silent plea, the killer in the night lurking in the shadows and waiting for the right time, the hollow sound of scraping coming from tired fingers, from bloodied, desperate attempts of saving oneself even as the last breath threatens to leave, howling yet again when metal digs into flesh and flesh lets it dig into bone. He sees it in the moonlight reflected on deep, calm waters, the prospect of fleeting dreams as his body slips, as the mouths of death scream and laugh in his face.

Sakusa Kiyoomi is dying.

In hindsight, he had never thought much about death. It had always seemed so far away and, at the age of 23, it was the furthest thing from his mind. Now, he realizes, it had always been lurking in the shadows in his peripheral, just out of sight. Out of the corner of his eye, it had been slinking around, watching him from the darkness, waiting for the perfect moment to sink its sharp teeth into his soft flesh. The human body is fragile and fallible, while death is inevitable and cruel and cold, or so they say.

Perhaps that’s why it doesn’t feel real, not at first. It feels like it could be happening to someone else, like Kiyoomi is merely watching himself from the outside as a detached observer. He had watched as his car went over the railing, watched as his body was tossed like a rag doll around the interior, and watched as it slammed into the ice-cold, ruthless waves of the sea below. It’s the first brush of freezing cold water against his bare skin that drags him back to himself and fills him with raw panic, starting from the center of his chest and clawing its way out through his throat and his insides into his arms and legs. He can’t breathe, it’s too much. Kiyoomi is violently tugging at the seatbelt still holding him in place, warm blood pouring out from his injuries. Someone is laughing, a growing, smiling lunatic standing still out of the corner of his eye, but Kiyoomi’s too consumed by his fear and urgent need to escape to even begin to consider why there would be laughter inside the car he had occupied alone.

Sakusa Kiyoomi is dying and it’s nothing like the stories said it would be. He can still breathe and think and feel and he thinks that maybe it would’ve been better had it just been the short movie that compiled moments of one’s life rather than the agony of not being able to get enough oxygen as panic flared up, as the water slowly flooded his car, freezing his injured legs and making them numb. He’d take the one-minute-long movie over the pain and discomfort of having your blood slowly crawling down your arms and face and neck because right now his two options were to bleed out or drown and he wasn’t really fond of either of them.

“Wow, you’ve really gone and done it this time, huh?”

Kiyoomi finally tears his eyes away from the rapidly rising water just outside the drivers window to address the amused voice just beside him. He is greeted by white blonde hair crowned with two gnarled, dark and twisted horns. The man on the passenger seat isn’t looking at him, opting to instead focus on filing his long, sharp red nails that heavily resembled claws, an uninterested expression on his face, yawning as if the car isn’t being engulfed by hungry waves, as if Kiyoomi isn’t bleeding out, as if he’s not going to die along with him - because at this point knowing who he is won’t make a difference if they’re both going to end up drowning anyway.

And yet.

Yet, Kiyoomi stares at him with wide eyes and an open mouth, eyeing every inch of skin exposed to the chilly night air, which is more than Kiyoomi ever needed to see of him. His muscular thighs are on full display as he props his feet up on the dash, lazily lounging in his seat. His broad, muscular chest is accentuated by the black leather straps criss crossing his pecs. While Kiyoomi’s shivering inside his wet clothes, the guy remains unbothered in leather straps and metal rings, clicking his tongue every couple of seconds as if Kiyoomi isn’t taking this seriously, as if it’s not _his own life_ on the line, as if getting a visit from the devil itself as you take your last breaths is a recurrent thing.

“Oh, don’t let me interrupt. If ya wanna continue with the futile escape attempts, be my guest. When you’re ready to talk about a real solution, ya let me know. But,” he pauses mid-thought and finally looks at Kiyoomi, eyes glowing bright red in the darkness of the quickly sinking car, “I think dyin’ here would really suck, so think fast.”

Kiyoomi returns to yanking on the door handle and pounding against the window. “You say that like you won’t die here too. If you have any bright ideas, I’m all ears.”

The blonde laughs, and it’s full and harmonious and stands in sharp contrast to the wet, shaky breaths ripped from Kiyoomi’s lungs. “Make a deal with me. I won’t perish here, but you can escape with your life if you agree to one simple term.”

“How do I know you can actually do this?”

“You don’t, not really, but me appearin’ in yer car from thin air after ya drove off a cliff should be a pretty good indicator.” He returns to filing his nails. “C’mon, pretty boy. I don’t have all day and my boots are gettin’ wet.”

Kiyoomi hesitates, studying the horned man’s face. He is running out of options quickly. The water has reached his neck and he is suddenly acutely aware of how afraid he is to die. Kiyoomi has never given death much thought, not until now, as he’s forced to stare into its cold, dead eyes. He has maybe minutes left before the car is completely submerged and filled with dark, frigid water. Kiyoomi doesn’t want to die. It can’t end here, not like this, in the middle of nowhere, gasping out his last breaths as salt water fills his lungs. He’s too afraid to speak, his throat starting to close in on itself and frustrated tears welling up in his eyes.

“Well, what will it be, Omi-kun?”

Kiyoomi chooses life and whatever it may look like after this moment.

In a lose-lose situation, death is the unknown variable, and Kiyoomi is unwilling to face the nothingness waiting for him on the other side. He nods once, so quick and slight that if the demon had blinked, he might have missed it.

“Let’s shake on it, then.” The horned man extends a hand with a glowing red mark embedded in the palm of his hand.

His hand looks rough and calloused and promises no relief, no comfort, but Kiyoomi takes it anyway. He’s shaking and probably way too concerned with the water that caresses the skin on his neck, sliding up all the way to his chin. That’s probably why he’s not expecting it when the demon pulls him forward, wrapping his other clawed hand around the back of his neck, and plants a chaste kiss on his forehead, on the spot just above his right brow.

What follows is silence and warmth. It’s dark, but Kiyoomi can see the frail silhouette of a silver butterfly guiding him forward, his tired legs not getting a single moment of rest as he plods forward again and again, reaching out to the light coming from the flaps of its wings, from the tinkling sound it makes and the one thing that crosses his mind is, _am I dead?_ , _did I die?, was that merely a hallucination?_ He plods forward, forward, forward, until the only thing he can do is close his eyes and let the darkness engulf him completely.

A day goes by in a flash.

Kiyoomi sleeps through it, until he finally bolts upright in bed, panting and covered in sweat. He pats himself down as if checking to make sure he is still whole, that all of his parts are still where they should be, that he’s not missing an arm or a leg or, fuck it, not even the tip of his nose. He’s in his bed, back in his clean, cozy apartment with a warm blanket over his trembling body. Sure, he might’ve been able to write off all the events pounding all around his head, the events that surely took place in the twenty-something hours prior as a mere fever dream, a vivid hallucination brought on by not getting enough sleep, had it not been for the nearly naked man looking over him from the side of the bed.

“Sleep well, Omi-kun?” The man with horns is looking down at him with an amused expression, his blood red eyes twinkling in the morning light streaming through the blinds. “I sure hope so. You were out for a whole day. Yer fashion sense is shit, by the way.”

Kiyoomi eyes the man’s leather kink gear he’s trying to pass off as casual wear with disdain. “I’m not exactly looking for opinions on the way I dress from _you_. Wait, wait, why were you in my closet? Actually, come to think of it, _why are you in my apartment_?”

His expression turns thoughtful for a moment. “Oh yeah, we never got around to introductions, huh?” He presses on as if Kiyoomi hadn’t just fired off three rapid-fire questions, blatantly ignoring all of them. He huffs a short laugh, scrunching up his nose. “I am the demon Atsumu, and you just sold your soul to me.”

“I did _wha-_ ”

Atsumu cuts him off mid-sentence. “And _you_ are Sakusa Kiyoomi, a boring man who has lived an otherwise unremarkable life until you drove your car over the railing and had the good fortune to meet me. _Lucky you_.” He shoots him a wink.

“Sorry, I still don’t understand what’s happening. I sold my soul to you?” Kiyoomi tilts his head to the side in confusion, a perplexed look gracing his delicate, sharp features.

“Alright, I’m gonna break this down for ya nice and slow, so listen good, because I don’t like repeating myself. You sold yer soul to me while you were knocking down death’s door simply because I am a gracious and merciful demon with selfless motives who offered you a way out. Your soul now officially belongs to me, and I will come to collect my end of the bargain at an unspecified later date. Congratu- _fucking_ -lations Omi-kun, you just got a second chance at life. Don’t fuck it up; I don’t make contracts with just anyone, ya know.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t acknowledge him as he rises from his spot on the bed, pushing past Atsumu to reach the bathroom door. He feels sick, his head dizzy and his limbs suddenly way too long for him to carry. Surely this can’t be real, _right?_ , and if he can just splash some cold water on his face, the horned man with pierced nipples and stupid leathery wings protruding from his muscular back like a stupid halloween costume will disappear. Atsumu trails after him with a spring in his step, as if Kiyoomi’s personal crisis is the most entertaining thing he has seen all week. Kiyoomi cuts on the water, cupping his hands under the faucet and splashing cool water onto his face. The chill of it gives him a jolt, and it’s only as he eyes at his own reflection in the mirror that he finally grasps the reality of his situation.

Behind him stands Atsumu, propped up in the doorway, regarding him with intense interest. Above his right brow sits two moles that resemble a semicolon.

“A gift from me to you, gorgeous.” Atsumu approaches him from behind, placing his rough hands on Kiyoomi’s broad shoulders, and leaning in close to speak directly into his ear. It was as if Atsumu’s lips had taken a brush to the canvas of Kiyoomi’s pallid skin, inking two black dots in the spot he had kissed just before it all went dark. “A reminder of our contract, though I doubt ya could forget me, even if ya tried,” his breath is hot as it fans across Kiyoomi’s neck, and he visibly shudders. “With that, I’ll be takin’ my leave.”

“Wait. How do you know my name?” Kiyoomi’s voice wavers as he speaks, as if he’s scared of asking the wrong questions.

Atsumu raises a single eyebrow at his question, his smile growing wider as it stretches across his face. “I may not look like it, but I’m a powerful demon, Omi-kun. That’s a stupid question, even for a human like you,” Atsumu sighs and shakes his head in feigned exasperation. “I’ll see ya around.”

And with that, he’s gone.

Alone in the bathroom at last, Kiyoomi feels his legs giving in from under his weight, his knees falling unceremoniously on the cold tiles with a loud and echoing _thud_ , tears flowing freely from his dark eyes and a sob fighting to be let out. Kiyoomi stares at his hands, stares at every single thing around him and he cries because this shouldn’t be real, it _couldn’t_ be. And yet, there he is, a demonic mark on his forehead and the lingering touch on his shoulders, an echo of his voice still pounding in his brain, over and over again, as it mimics the beats of his tired, confused heart.

His throat is dry and he tries to laugh it off, to bury it in the back of his mind and pretend it was all a dream, that he’s still asleep and tucked in comfortably under his blankets, hugging his pillows and that those marks on his forehead are nothing but a sleep-induced hallucination. And that should’ve made sense, should’ve calmed down his heart, but when he finally gets up and on his feet again and meets his own scared, pale and ghostly reflection in the mirror, Kiyoomi almost sobs, almost faints, his hands shaking and suddenly colder than before.

Because of course this isn’t a dream.

He sold his soul to have a second chance at life, to meet his end at a later date, to die somewhere more comfortable than the wild and cold sea that roared in his ears and tried to devour him whole. Maybe, he thinks, it would’ve been better to die without having a demonic mark on his face. Maybe, he thinks, it would’ve been better if Atsumu had never answered his pleas because now his touch lingers and Kiyoomi’s skin is burning. _Is it true what people say about a demon’s touch?_ , is what he asks himself as he studies his now naked shoulders in the mirror. They don’t look any different.

He’s still warm. He’s still breathing.

For better or for worse, he is alive.

He’ll probably have to thank Atsumu the next time they meet. But first, he thinks, _sleep._

**2\. the dance with the devil**

The air is thick and heavy with smoke and sweat, a heavy beat throbbing in his chest and the hundreds of sweaty, hot and unknown bodies bumping into him making his head spin, his hands tremble and the oh, so familiar knot settle in his throat, scratching his flesh whenever he moves or tries in vain to wash it down with alcohol. There are people screaming to be heard over the loud music, people awkwardly moving their bodies in every direction and calling it _dancing_ while their glasses pour out their drinks on the floor and there are the people who just want to drink in peace, their arms stretched out over the counter with a circle of empty glasses and tears swirling around them.

Kiyoomi pays attention to the bodies pushing past him, he pays attention to the way they hold their drinks and the way they pretend to drop them over someone else in a reconstruction of an overused, boring cliché. He clicks his tongue when he sees it working for the third time tonight, rolling his eyes and downing the last few drops of the drink he’d been nursing for the last hour. Being a regular has its perks, Kiyoomi has come to know, because he doesn’t even have to raise an arm for the bartender to refill his glass. He absentmindedly eyes his reflection in the long mirror that stretches across the length of the bar wall. He looks like hell, and the clothes he’s wearing have fallen out of fashion in the last few months, maybe the last few years. Kiyoomi can hardly be bothered to be trendy anymore. He takes note of the deep, dark rings that line his eyes, a result of the stress this new life has so generously bestowed upon him. His curls are disheveled from the constant aggravation of his hands tugging at the locks over and over again, all day. Perhaps that’s why the bartender avoids his eyes, looking anywhere but directly at him.

Muttering a low _thank you_ that probably wasn’t heard, Kiyoomi turns around and shifts his focus back to the swaying, writhing bodies on the dance floor. It’s a great distraction, the whole people-watching thing. Kiyoomi pays attention to the way some people roll their eyes slightly when they don’t like someone else’s advances, he pays attention to the hungry touches and open-mouthed kisses for probably a bit longer than necessary, watching them take stumbling, unsure steps towards the nearest dark corner, he pays attention to the laughter and the not-so-amicable discussions that usually end up in broken glasses and black eyes. Watching people is a great distraction from the fact that he’s a twenty-three-year-old who made a deal with a handsome devil and that he’s now existing simply to dance around his little finger.

Ten years had passed in a blink.

Kiyoomi hasn’t aged a day.

He should be thirty-three by now, he thinks, and yet no signs of aging mar his young, attractive features. No wrinkles, no gray hairs, no nothing. It’s unsettling. He had caught on relatively quickly to the fact that Atsumu had not told him everything, had either willfully omitted information or just plain forgot, deeming it useless information and shoving it all the way down to the back of his mind, somewhere so deep and unreachable Kiyoomi even doubts he remembers it himself.

With Atsumu, either scenario is just as plausible.

People are starting to notice, too. Kiyoomi can no longer exist within the same social circles he once occupied, not when people are constantly commenting on his youthful appearance standing at odds with his age. He’s looking at homes in different cities, planning a major move, because something tells him he won’t start looking his age any time soon. He never imagined in his life he would be so desperate to grow old, to see Atsumu again, never thought he would be willing him with all his might to appear again and explain whatever the fuck is happening to his body.

A soft voice comes from just beside his right shoulder, sending shivers down his spine as he carves his nails into his palms. “Hey _gorgeous_ , missed me?”

Speak of the fucking devil.

Atsumu continues on, unfazed by the daggers Kiyoomi shoots at him. “Because _I_ , for one, missed you. It’s been a long ten years without ya, Omi-kun, and yer just as pretty as the last time I saw ya.”

He’s being facetious, Kiyoomi knows. Still, it gives him a strange pang in his chest, makes something churn in his stomach and a strange feeling slide up his spine, things that he is not willing to dissect, not yet, not with a predator circling him, poised to pounce. He’s smiling, Kiyoomi notices, his hair effortlessly framing his face with a golden hue he’s never seen before. He’s smiling, showing his sharp, white teeth, red eyes glowing in the dark, smoky room just for him in an animalistic exhibition of everything Kiyoomi should’ve been wary of in the beginning. Atsumu bites his bottom lip and slowly slides beside him, resting his elbows on the counter and tilting his head as if his presence was something to be expected all along.

He’s toying with him _exactly_ like a predator toys with its prey before taking the first bite.

“Come on, say ya missed me.”

Kiyoomi scoffs. “I did not,” is what he says back. “Why are you here?”

It’s the first time Kiyoomi locks eyes with him, breath hitching in his throat, lump finally settling inside as his lungs thrash around and plead for mercy, for the sweet release of the next intake of oxygen Kiyoomi can’t seem to find. Because Atsumu isn’t wearing his stupid, gimmicky, and cliche leathery outfit, if Kiyoomi could even call that a proper outfit, but actual clothes that show just the right amount of skin to make his mind run rampant with wild and reckless thoughts. Of course, he doesn’t need to think hard about it, he’s – _unfortunately_ – already seen everything there was to see, every bit of exposed flesh, every single bit of him that was so shamelessly out all the time.

His first thought is that he looks good in black, because he actually does.

If anyone asked him, he’d tell them there was absolutely no way Atsumu would ever clothe himself in anything other than leather straps and metal rings, no way he’d ever lower himself to actually put on some pants and have the decency to wear anything that would cover his chest and the two metal buds that pierced his flesh. Yet, there he was, dressed in formal attire and with his hair slicked back as if he was nothing more than a mere ordinary salaryman who needed to unwind after a hard day at work.

“Can’t I pay a visit to an old friend?” Atsumu asks with a wink. “Come on, Omi-kun. Buy me a drink, will ya?”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “We’re not friends.”

“Ya wound me, Omi-Omi,” he pouts. “I saved your life, didn’t I?” He leans his head back and his horns catch the light.

“Aren’t you concerned about….?” Kiyoomi trails off as he makes vague gestures just above his head, referencing Atsumu’s very obvious horns, thank you very much, on full display in a bar full of humans.

Atsumu laughs, and it’s like nails on a chalkboard to Kiyoomi’s ears. Objectively, it’s pretty, but there’s some sort of undercurrent to the otherwise melodious sound that feels like scratches of long, sharp nails down the insides of his skull. Like everything else about Atsumu, it is horrible yet lovely and could only be something devilishly cultivated, crawling out of the depths of hell to make its appearance in the human world.

In many ways, Atsumu is devastating to Kiyoomi. Ignoring the contract, disregarding the bond forged by demonic forces, Atsumu is an unknown variable that threatens to raze Kiyoomi to the ground. The sharp edge of his smile, the glimmer of his unnatural red eyes that mimic the look of rubies, precious jewels in and of themselves. He feels like danger, like everything Kiyoomi had actively dedicated his life to avoid prior to the moment his car was sent flying over the railing. He’s beautiful in the worst, most tragic way possible, like the feeling of watching the earth being bathed in righteous fire at the end of the world.

All at once, Kiyoomi comes back to himself, remembering why he had been so desperate to see Atsumu, his face visibly lighting up in recognition. “I haven’t aged.”

Atsumu stops laughing and eyes him quizzically, a taunting set to his mouth. “Oh, did I forget to tell ya? Silly me. Your life _did_ technically end that day, at least the one you knew before.” Kiyoomi feels his mouth fall open, a million questions on the tip of his tongue, but Atsumu just barrels on, completely unaware. He does that often, Kiyoomi notices. “Your mortal life ended and was replaced by an immortal one. No agin’, no disease, no dyin’ of natural causes. Don’t walk into traffic or something like that, though, yer not invincible. Anyways, congratulations on your new immortality, enjoy it for all that it’s worth. You will never age past twenty-three, young and beautiful for as long as you live on the borrowed time ya got from me. You can thank me later.”

Sakusa Kiyoomi, in his previously mortal life, had always been a cautious man. He never touched surfaces he had not personally ensured the sanitation of, always watched what he ate and was careful of the activities he participated in and the places he went to. He lived in fear of the world, with all its dangers and diseases. He could count all of his romantic partners on one hand without even utilizing all of his fingers from the time he was still alive in the usual sense. He had not lived for _fear of living_ , he realizes now as he looks back on the time spent objectively. Now, without the threat of imminent death hanging over his head at all times and all ties to his life from before about to be severed, he feels a sense of freedom.

“C’mon, Omi-kun. Have a drink with me. I’ll even go easy on ya.” Atsumu winks as he orders the first two shots of what would probably become too many.

“You’re severely underestimating me. You won’t make that same mistake twice.”

Late evening bleeds into the dead of night seamlessly, without warning. The drinks keep flowing down their throats, arms raised up asking for more, dizzy, veiled eyes that carry the world with warm, slow steps until Atsumu and Kiyoomi are both unsteady on their feet, all rosy cheeks and easy laughter and teasing banter.

“Oh, c’mon, Omi-Omi, admit it! When was the last time ya had this much fun?” Atsumu smiles at him, a big genuine smile revealing rows of perfect, pearly whites, and two sharp canines that Kiyoomi can’t help but think look like fangs instead of teeth. He has _fangs_ , for christ’s sake. Talk about a stereotype.

Sakusa looks at him earnestly, a goofy, yet endearing smile settling on his perfect, pink pout. “Years, if ever.”

“What was your life like before?”

“Hmm?”

“Before you almost died. Any girlfriends?” Kiyoomi shakes his head no. “ _Boyfriends_ , then?” Atsumu wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

Kiyoomi snorts, “Shut up. It’s none of your business.”

“Why can’t I make _you_ my business?” Atsumu leans in so close as he speaks that Kiyoomi can smell the minty, somewhat inebriating scent that seems to be emanating from his pores, and he looks up at him from under his long, dark lashes.

“You’re _such_ a tease. Spare me the lines, Casanova.”

“Casanova? What are you, eighty?” Atsumu erupts into infectious laughter as he playfully punches Kiyoomi’s arm. “You’re so lame, Omi-kun. You are so lucky yer so pretty, otherwise I wouldn’t hang around ya so much.”

Kiyoomi blushes and shifts his focus to the drink in front of him, anything to avoid looking directly at Atsumu. “Shut up. Don’t you have better things to do than bother me? Some important demon business to take care of? Souls to steal or whatever?”

“Yeah, maybe my time would be better spent elsewhere,” Atsumu agrees thoughtfully, “but I’m takin’ the night off to hang out with ya. At the very least, ya owe me a dance in exchange for my company.”

Kiyoomi furiously shakes his head as he laughs softly, hands waving in the air in dismissal. “No way, I’m not dancing with you.”

“Oh, come _on_. What would it take? Do you want me to beg? Because I will.”

“Fine, fine. _One_ dance, just so you’ll spare us both the embarrassment of your begging, as amusing as that sounds.”

“Keep shootin’ me down like this and ya may still see it some time. Whatever it takes to get ya to show me that goofy ass smile of yers again,” Atsumu rises and offers a hand to Kiyoomi. “Will ya do me the honor, Omi-kun?”

“You’re ridiculous. I already agreed.” Kiyoomi gingerly places his hand in Atsumu’s, and Atsumu grips it tightly in his own calloused hand as he drags him to his feet, stumbling and swaying the whole way. He practically falls into Atsumu’s arms when he begins to tilt forward, plowing into his strong, sturdy chest, and Atsumu grips him by the shoulders to steady him. “Heh. Oops,” Kiyoomi is giggling, _actually_ giggling, and something in Atsumu’s expression visibly softens at the sound.

It feels natural, the way Kiyoomi fits into Atsumu’s hands.

As the beat kicks up, loudly echoing in his eardrums, painfully throbbing in his chest, Atsumu hauls him in by the waist, holding him so close Kiyoomi can feel the flaming heat of his skin, their heartbeats seemingly syncing up with the music enveloping them. Being this close to Atsumu, closer than they’ve ever been before, Kiyoomi swears it feels like hellfire blazing just under his skin, burning him whole, agonizingly slowly and in the best way possible. He wouldn’t dare move away. He’s not sure he could even if he wanted to, with the way Atsumu has his hooks in deep, with the way the skin right beneath his fingers seems to itch every time he moves an inch closer.

It feels like Atsumu’s touch is scorching him through the fabric of his clothes, their bodies swaying clumsily as Atsumu easily moves against him. Atsumu’s eyes are hazy from the drinks and his cheeks are flushed, his lips tugged up and parted in a wicked grin. The world has seemingly faded away and there is only Atsumu, the background noise and people buzzing around and behind them fading out, leaving only red eyes and wicked fangs in Kiyoomi’s line of sight.

He must’ve been staring, completely unaware of it until Atsumu chuckles.

“Like what ya see?”

_Yes._

“In your dreams,” Kiyoomi rolls his eyes.

Kiyoomi feels hunger, raw and desperate for Atsumu, and sees those emotions mirrored back in his mischievous red eyes. It’s in the curve of his lips, the lilt of his speech, everything Kiyoomi feels coming back to him tenfold. It’s so real, so tangible that Kiyoomi wonders if he could hold it in his hands, crush it between his fists.

The stretch of infinity that exists between reality and all the things that cannot be seen stretches between them, leisurely spreading it’s long limbs and grinning up lazily at Kiyoomi. It’s too much. The space between them is, in reality, barely there, but to Kiyoomi, it feels as though they could be miles apart. Closer, _closer_ , Kiyoomi wants to be attached to Atsumu in every way the human mind could dare to dream up. Atsumu is beyond the realm of the human imagination, far more beautiful and dangerous than even the greatest playwrights and poets would dare to put pen to paper and attempt to capture. His hands on Kiyoomi’s waist feel like pure ecstasy coursing through his veins, overtaking him completely, clouding his sense of judgment. This is wrong, he knows. This is _wrong_ , he feels, fight or flight instinct kicking in. This is wrong, the voice in his head weakly cries as he threads his fingers through white-blonde locks.

Atsumu guides his hips easily against his own, his hands like that of a potter’s giving life to a lump of clay, shaping and forming him with delicate, skilled fingers. The line between heaven and hell is blurred when Atsumu’s touch hurts as good as this, searing pleasure and all its inevitable consequences. The song changes to something slower, something sadder. Atsumu moves to release him, but Kiyoomi pulls him back in, maintaining a tight grip on his shoulder and waist as they gently sway.

Atsumu gives him a knowing smirk, but spares him the smartass remarks no doubt hovering on the tip of his tongue.

He lets Kiyoomi lead this time, resting his head in the space between his neck and shoulder. The demon is obviously unsteady on his feet, and Kiyoomi isn’t much better off. The couples around them on the floor gradually dissipate as last call grows nearer. Kiyoomi gazes down at Atsumu, who has his eyes closed and looks completely at ease. _He’s so lovely_ , Kiyoomi feels his heart clench. The idea of letting go, the prospect of the loss of contact, is devastating.

“Hey,” Kiyoomi gently nudges Atsumu.

“Hmmmm?” Atsumu blinks up at him with large, bleary eyes.

“Let’s go.” Atsumu’s mouth starts to turn down at the edges and Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “You can come home with me.”

“How forward of ya, Omi-kun. And here I thought you were a gentleman,” Atsumu slurs out.

“Shut up. Come on.” Kiyoomi grips Atsumu by his wrist and drags him towards the exit, Atsumu giggling and stumbling behind him the whole way.

They barrel across the threshold of his apartment, narrowly avoiding becoming a tangled pile of limbs. Atsumu follows after Kiyoomi as he darts around the house collecting pillows and blankets to set Atsumu up on the couch. When Kiyoomi drops the bedding onto the cushion, Atsumu looks down at it disapprovingly, nose scrunched in dissatisfaction.

“The couch? _Really_ , Omi?”

Kiyoomi looks back with a teasing smirk. “Were you hoping for the bed?”

Atsumu shrugs and looks off to the side, embarrassed to be put on the spot. “I mean, if ‘m bein’ honest…”

Kiyoomi turns to walk off in the direction of his bedroom.

“What? Not even a goodnight kiss?” Atsumu crosses his arms over his chest as his face contorts into a pout.

He turns to look at him, considering. His disheveled hair, his swollen pink lips from his repeated biting, the sliver of chest left exposed by his shirt. He could kiss him. He wants to. But what comes next? What happens after you kiss the one who owns your soul and controls your fate? “Goodnight. You better be gone by the time I wake up.”

Kiyoomi hears Atsumu repeating him in a mocking tone as he closes the door to his bedroom behind him.

_It’s all white. Everything is bathed in white, as far as Kiyoomi’s eyes can see. It’s almost unnerving, the pure white light reflecting and burning his eyes._

_He’s not alone here. Atsumu, completely naked and vulnerable, slowly walks towards him. He wears a lazy smile but his eyes betray him, the way they soften in adoration as he looks at Kiyoomi. He finally bridges the gap between them, bringing a rough hand to cup Kiyoomi’s cheek. Atsumu drags him into a kiss, first soft and tentative, then rough and impatient as he pulls Kiyoomi’s body against his own. He is beautiful, he is sin, he is everything Kiyoomi has ever denied himself. All the pleasures of a mortal life he’s ever denied himself, singing through his veins, gifted to him by one sweeping kiss. Atsumu’s hands are wrapped up in ink black curls, gently tugging, allowing Kiyoomi no escape. Soft, breathy moans escape his lips as he licks up into Kiyoomi’s mouth, desperation in each breath. Slowly, Atsumu brings his hand down from Kiyoomi’s cheek to rest on the center of his chest._

_He shoves his fist straight through, tearing past skin and muscle and bone to reach to his heart. He pulls it out carefully, delicately, as if it were something precious to be treasured. He holds it in his palm, putting it on full display for Kiyoomi, who stares at it with wide eyes. Atsumu’s smile only grows bigger and more brilliant with each drop of red that spills from Kiyoomi’s open wound. There’s blood everywhere now, pooling at his feet and staining what was once all white scarlett. Atsumu turns his attention back to the heart, eyeing it with detached interest as it pounds weakly in his hand. He gives it a tight squeeze. Kiyoomi finally drops to his knees. Atsumu puts a hand under his chin to turn his face to look at him, and smiles sickly sweet._

_He brings the heart to his lips, sinking his fangs into the tender flesh, painting his lovely lips crimson and—_

Kiyoomi wakes with a jolt, pouring sweat and panting heavily. His mind slowly clears the fog of the dream, and he realizes he is back in the safe, comfortable darkness of his room. He swings his feet over the edge of the bed to plant them in the soft carpet, his throat dry and raw from the silent scream he gulped down. His hands are shaking, his heart slowly making its way up, up, up, choking him and making it impossible to breathe.

He makes his way towards the kitchen, desperate for water, for anything to ease the pain, the anxiety that built up in his stomach, the adrenaline flooding his veins. On the way, his eyes roam over Atsumu’s sleeping figure huddled on the couch, wrapped up in the blankets like a burrito. His face is just barely visible and he’s snoring softly, looking completely at ease. _He looks harmless this way_ , Kiyoomi thinks. Nothing about him in this position screams all-powerful demon, and he looks more like a soft, scared little boy when he momentarily whimpers and clutches the blanket tighter.

Kiyoomi tries to calm himself with the thought that the man sleeping in front of him couldn’t be capable of the events of his dreams. Atsumu holds his heart in his hands, and it’s anyone’s guess what he plans to do with it. For a moment, in a way so uncharacteristically optimistic of Kiyoomi, he thinks Atsumu couldn’t do it. He thinks, he hopes. But dreams sometimes serve as a sort of warning, occasionally even precognition. Kiyoomi decides to take the dream as a warning to never blur the lines, never forget who Atsumu really is to him. Kiyoomi is like a dog on a short leash under Atsumu’s watchful eyes.

Before heading back on his way towards the kitchen, he pauses for a moment.

“Goodnight, Atsumu.”

**3\. the devil in me**

Once, there was a boy.

He picked up red roses and daffodils and reached for his hands with the brightest smile there was. He stood there, flowers in his hands, and offered them innocently, eyes squinted from the pressure on his cheeks when his lips drifted upwards. He laughed and placed a wildflower in his hair, _because it compliments you_ , words too big for a child, words that made his heart feel warm and his own lips part in response. He dragged him along, his voice loud and cheerful, his face twisting up in a plethora of emotions in a single second because what a joy it was, being a child and being free to roam. The ice cream dripping down his wrists and the giggles in the summer, the sighs and complaints when exams approached, head resting over a familiar shoulder, fingers playing with the curls he didn’t have the time to cut yet, hair reaching his neck, a giggle and a poke to his side. The familiar presence, the comfortable silence, the non-verbal communication and the acts of selflessness they got so used to growing up.

Where once stood a boy, four white chrysanthemums give room for death to settle.

There was no such thing as an open casket. The smell was off, like tea and incense and flower petals and everything that reminds him of the people they used to be, the kids running around freely, big smiles on their faces and the certainty of a long, bright road ahead of them. People like to talk about the hopelessness, the tears and the grief, but no one ever tells you nothing feels real as you stand there, as you try to hide and lurk in the shadows because no one here knows you except for the cold corpse lying inside a wooden casket, covered in flowers he didn’t even like. There are sad smiles and hopeless ones, there are pats in the back and the clichés they whisper, perhaps to make themselves feel better, that _he’s in a better place now._ There are kids running around, still too young to understand the concept of death, tugging at their sleeves and asking _when is grandpa coming home, he promised we would watch the game together, he promised he’d come to my play._ What no one tells you about a funeral is that it all feels like a fever dream, the blurred lines between fiction and reality as you stare holes into the picture of the person you once knew, the wrinkles by his eyes and the easy-going smile you still have memorized. The only difference is that he’s old in this picture, he’s a husband, a father, a grandfather, and you haven’t aged a single day.

Muffled sobs and pretty crying, black lace and satin wrapping around his throat as they whisper his name, as they try to conceal the dreadful fact that Komori Motoya is no more, lifeless inside a mahogany box soon to be buried under their feet. Someone talks about the heavens, that he was a good man, his soul being kept by the angels. Someone whispers a prayer beside him, a little kid staring out the window with boredom written all around his face. _Bow your head in prayer, let us remember him as the good man he was._ Stories are shared: the birth of his first child, how he wept and how he fainted before being able to hold the baby in his arms; the thunderous laughter and the thousands of bedtime stories he used to come up with, the stories about a friend he missed dearly, the one who used to trail behind him, the stories of how he disappeared and how much he missed him.

Kiyoomi doesn’t cry.

He stares out the window just like the kids are doing, at the sun hiding behind the clouds. Say, for instance, that a tiny meteorite falls down from the sky and decimates the entire prefecture and all that’s left is smoke, ash and bones. And Kiyoomi stands next to it in his half-burnt suit, tie hanging lifeless from his neck, an immortal life he couldn’t run away from. He almost laughs when someone mentions his brother, his sister, himself, how much they were missed, the letters he never got to send, the framed photographs over his nightstand. Agony boils inside his veins, the bitter aftertaste settling at the back of his tongue, the screams he gulps down along with the lump inside his throat and, and, and-

He almost runs out.

He’s gasping for air once he reaches the outside, his lungs thrashing around, yelling, yelling, yelling and he has to lean against a tree for support, looking up at the sky and nodding, _yes, it looks like it’ll rain today._ There are people coming out, faces stained with tears and red noses, the kids running around not fully comprehending the circumstance of death. _Ah_ , Kiyoomi gasps while the pigeons coo all around him, mournful and serious, _his children look just like him._ The same weird eyebrows, the same easy smiles even when their eyes are red and puffy and their lips are quivering with the waves of melancholy they can’t seem to get rid of. Kiyoomi almost wants to reach out to them, grab their shoulders and say _I understand, I’ve been missing him horribly for all these years._ He doesn’t, the remnants of who he was holding his arms back, wrapping long, cold fingers around his throat and _ah, he shouldn’t be here._

“What the _fuck_ are _you_ doing here?”

Of course he’s here.

Standing tall, insufferable, black dawn. His hair moves along with the chilling breeze, his eyebrows glued together as his whole face contorts like he’s the one suffering a loss, like he’s the one mourning a friend he didn’t get to grow old with. Kiyoomi clenches his fists, clicks his tongue and looks away. He’s bright, way too bright for such a monochrome day, for the rendered shadows and the gray clouds in the sky. It’s going to rain soon, isn’t it? He takes one and then two steps towards him, one arm reaching out, a whisper of his name escaping chapped lips and Kiyoomi can only snort before shaking his head and taking a step to the side, a step forward and then back again. Atsumu is staring at him, his fingers still stretched out towards him, his eyebrows still contorted in an expression that most definitely _doesn’t_ suit him and _what the hell is he even wearing._

It would’ve been funny, really, Kiyoomi would’ve laughed. Atsumu and his ridiculously inappropriate clothes, his ridiculous horns and the eyes that screamed danger however you looked at it. The top few buttons of his shirt are open, porcelain skin greeting him with a smile, his arms and legs almost painfully constricted by black cloth. Sure, it would’ve been funny. But not today, not when Kiyoomi’s heart had been smashed into a million tiny pieces merely a few hours earlier.

“Hey,” his voice sounds warm and soothing, a scratched CD static as he takes another step forward, as his eyes stare at the unlit cigarette hanging from Kiyoomi’s fingers, the thousands of emotions that swim inside his eyes, the furrow in his brow and the warning sign plastered over his forehead. _Don’t come closer,_ it says. Atsumu ignores it. “I thought I’d come. I dunno, maybe it’d make ya feel better. Not being alone and all.”

Kiyoomi chuckles, incredulity written all over his face. He shakes his head, looks down to the floor and clicks his tongue. Emotions are sewn into every stitch over his heart, the rhythm echoing in his eardrums like a macabre, melancholic tune he can’t get rid of as Atsumu takes yet another step towards him, as he reaches out for his shoulder, as he opens his mouth again and again, as he chokes out his name, as he looks at him as if he’s damaged goods, with that crooked, uncharacteristic smile that makes Kiyoomi sick to his stomach. Of course he’d be here, of course he’d say that. The permanent thorn on his side, the unravelling stitches slowly making him fall apart as Atsumu watches, he always watches, his eyes burning holes in Kiyoomi’s skin.

“You jerk. You don’t get to do that,” Kiyoomi laughs, his eyes squinted and throat dry, his hands shaking as he plays with the cigarette between his fingers, as he digs his nails into his palms, as he stares straight into the hellish prisons that stare back at him, warm and inviting, hiding their true nature, the scorching trials of hell itself. “You don’t get to come here and comfort me. This whole thing is your fault.”

“Omi…”

“No, you don’t get to talk either. Why are you even here? I wouldn’t be in this position if you hadn’t come into my life, if you had found someone else to turn into your little plaything.”

It’s the fourth time Kiyoomi has seen melancholy pouring from his eyes, the sweet _pop_ of death lingering right beneath his skin, dark blood gathering at the corners of his lips as he sank his teeth down, as he looked up, up, up and chuckled bitterly, the threat clear in his face when he turned around with a _what’cha lookin’ at?_ It’s the fifth time Atsumu has tried getting closer, his footsteps echoing in an empty garden while a ceremony takes place inside. Kiyoomi scoffs, shakes his head and sighs, everything all at once, squinting at him with an incredulous smile hanging from his lips because _surely_ he should have understood by now, he should have left. But he didn’t, staring up at him with apologetic eyes, a soft, sad smile playing around with his lips, tugging them up and down all at once. It’s almost sickening.

It’s nothing but a song of pain and sorrow that echoes inside his head as his heart races, as his hands curl into fists and he squishes the unlit cigarette between his fingers. Kiyoomi feels the tears starting to sting, feels the lump in his throat and the despair that comes with it, the lack of oxygen circulating inside his veins and everything else he’s grown so used to ever since Atsumu first appeared in his life. He hates it.

“You should have left me to die,” he manages to choke out, his voice strained and high-pitched as he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, as he stares straight into the abyss inside Atsumu’s eyes. So pretty, so dangerous. “I wish you never showed up in the first place. I wish I’d never met you. I wish I died back then, consumed by the waves and forgotten by the world. It would’ve been better than this, being doomed and forced to live an immortal life all alone.”

“You’re not alone.”

Kiyoomi’s read in a book once that we’re all born to run straight into the abyss, slowly letting the darkness consume us as we grow old, as time goes by and we look out the window with an _ah, it’s already been so long_. He almost laughs at the tone on Atsumu’s voice, the void waving at him from behind his eyes, almost laughs at the way he stands out in the middle of all of these people dressed up in suits and fancy dresses while he only barely managed to button up his shirt and put on some actual pants. He looks ridiculous with his hair like that, with melancholy painted over his features in a way that most definitely does _not_ suit him at all. And the words he says… Kiyoomi can’t help but laugh, really. It comes out bitter and rotten, the tears starting to flood his eyes, daring to jump over the cliff, daring to stain his cheeks and make him crumble down, fall into his knees and weep. _Running straight into the abyss,_ he thinks with a bitter chuckle, _wouldn’t that just be running straight into his arms?_

“Yeah, because _of course_ I’ve always dreamed of having to spend the rest of my life with someone like _you,_ ” he points, his fingers trembling, his whole body shivering after being bathed in an ocean of despair, his eyelids twitching and his lips quivering with the promise of a sob that never came. “Who are _you_ to tell me I’m not alone when I just watched the person I grew up with being sealed away in a box that’s about to go underground for the rest of eternity? Who are _you_ to stand there and pretend you care, pretend you understand when you’re nothing but a goddamn parasite who sucks the life out of everything around you to sustain your own miserable, pitiful existence. What do you even know about loss? You don’t get to tell me _I’m not alone._ ”

What follows is an eerie silence as Atsumu licks his lips and squints at him, his head tilted to the side as he takes a shaky breath, as he takes another step towards Kiyoomi, his expression taking on a sharper quality as he sighs and shakes his head. He points at him, tongue poking out of his mouth as his eyes darken, as his whole body shakes, as he roars with laughter, “And _you,_ ” he whispers, his voice low and cracked, his face a blur of horror and electrifying despair. “You don’t get to tell me who I am and who I’m not, Omi-kun. Don’t pretend to know me so well.”

“I _don’t care_ about who you are,” Kiyoomi smirks as he takes one step forward and then another one until they’re face to face, until he can see the desperate specks of gold inside an endless abyss, hanging on for dear life. “You took everything from me. You took family, you took relationships, you took _time._ What else do you want? What else would satisfy your disgusting demonic desires? To make me miserable for the rest of my pathetic, immortal life? You should have let me die in that car.”

There it is, that mischievous grin, the stance of a predator about to sink its fangs on tender flesh, of bathing in warm blood as it pours out of a lifeless carcass. Kiyoomi’s carcass, if he’s not cautious enough, if he doesn’t run, if he allows Atsumu to grab him by the throat, the curled fingernails scratching right beneath his ear as he slowly approaches, the glimmer in his eyes being nothing but raw excitement for the chase. Kiyoomi doesn’t move, he doesn’t dare to.

“I should have,” he whispers, his face way too close, his breath warm against Kiyoomi’s skin. He still doesn’t move. Atsumu doesn’t either. “I should’ve let yer ungrateful ass sink to the bottom of the sea, should’ve let ya rot under the waves and whatever horrors awaited ya down under. Hear me out, Omi-kun, there hasn’t been a single day where I haven’t regretted pulling you out of that car. But ya know, t’was you who made a deal with me. I didn’t force you to give me your soul, Omi. I offered and _you_ made a choice. It’s not going to be easy for as long as you live, I told ya that.”

His words are like a punch to the ribs and he’s dangerously close and all Kiyoomi can think of is _run run run_ , his feet glued to the floor, heart in his throat and anger boiling inside his veins. It climbs up his spine, that sludgy, horrid feeling, the bitterness at the back of his tongue making him flinch, the smile adorning Atsumu’s features making him shiver. There are people crying, there are pigeons cooing, the sounds starting to fade when Atsumu chuckles again, venom dripping from his lips, “I fucking gave you this life and you don’t get to complain, you don’t get to set the terms, ya know? But I guess I should’ve known. All humans are the same in the end. Your mere miserable existence is a loan, Omi-kun, and yer living on borrowed time. Expecting anything else from me is naivety from your part and making demands is even worse. Don’t forget this: I _gave_ you this life and I can take it back whenever the mood strikes me. Don’t try to act all high and mighty, you self righteous prick, because ya already know I don’t like having to repeat myself.”

Red, hungry eyes stare at him for what feels like hours, days, weeks. _You should have let me die, you should have let me die, you should have let me die._ Wallowing in grief, rage and despair, Kiyoomi lets the words echo inside his head. He flinches, he hums and sighs, his hands trembling as he pokes him in the chest, as he presses his finger to the bones of Atsumu’s chest, pushing him away, away, away, as he takes another step forward and shakes his head. _You should have let me die._

“Is that what would make ya happy, _Sakusa?”_ Atsumu tilts his head to the side, the promise of a snake’s bite hanging from his lips. “Being a rotting corpse on the seabed? Being buried under metal scraps, a skeleton to be found after however many years have passed? You’d prefer that to this _pathetic_ immortal life?”

Kiyoomi gulps, he nods. “If it means getting rid of _you,_ I’d take anything I can possibly get.”

He feels a bitter taste upon his tongue when Atsumu smiles, threatening and hungry. Scorching hot acid burns through his throat when Atsumu laughs, when he shakes his head and his skin starts glowing under the few rays of sun that shine through thick, gray clouds. His nails are digging into his palms and Kiyoomi swears he sees a glimpse of betrayal shooting through his eyes like a comet’s tail when he blinks once, twice, and then giggles. It pierces through him without hesitation, the way his voice sounds so calm, so composed, a blade straight into his heart. It buries itself deeper and deeper with every single whisper, every single sound that rolls out of his tongue, “On second thought, death would be too good for you, Sakusa.”

And Kiyoomi laughs because he knows it’s true.

He crushes the unlit cigarette between his fingers again just like he’d crushed every single one of his relationships, vanishing from everyone’s lives as if he was nothing more than a speck of dust to be brushed off eventually. He crushes it like he wished Atsumu had crushed him back when he was still struggling to get out of that sinking car, like he wished he had while Kiyoomi slept after being talked into a deal he couldn’t escape from.

“Maybe so,” he whispers, voice strained and lips quivering. “But even still, it’s the only thing I can still look forward to. Being free from you, from everything you’ve brought into my life and the tormenting grins, the nightmares and everything else. You said you’d collect my soul, the soul you took while I was cowering in fear. So why,” he spits out, throwing the cigarette to Atsumu’s chest, hands curled into fists and despair written all over his face. _It fucking hurts._ “Why haven’t you done it? _Why won’t you just do it?_ Why put me through so much pain when you could’ve easily finished this already? Do you get off on my suffering? Do you hate me that much?”

Atsumu quietly stares down at the crushed cigarette lying next to his feet, a scowl seeming to be permanently etched onto his face as he looks up at Kiyoomi again, teeth playing with his bottom lip as he hums, eyes filled with lust and hunger, devouring every piece of flesh they can find. He erupts into a laugh, victorious and full of self satisfaction, and Kiyoomi almost falls to his knees, just like in that dream from so long ago. His heart is Atsumu’s hand and it’s bleeding, why won’t it stop _bleeding_? He hears the singing and the bells and it’s suffocating, the idea of being left alone to wander a path he didn’t even get to choose for himself. It hurts.

“So what now, _Sakusa?”_ He spits the last word with all the venom he keeps tucked behind his sharp fangs, rolling easily off his tongue.

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

“I wish I never met you,” Kiyoomi whispers as he turns around, as he takes the first few steps towards the funeral home, towards the crowd that gathers in front of it, the black dresses and suits and the kids running around, still clueless in the matters of life and death. “I wish you never showed up in the first place. You should’ve let me die.”

He hears him shifting, an infinitesimal movement as his feet crush the fallen leaves, as the pigeons flock back to where they once stood. He hears his voice, cold as the ocean waves that threatened to gulp him down once, hears his laughter and the click of his tongue, _enjoy your loneliness, the constricting silence, the thoughts you can’t ever escape, the memories of who dragged you out of that sinking car._ Kiyoomi closes his eyes, clenches his fists and inhales, exhales slowly, one, two, three, four. He dares to look back, over his shoulder, the promise of his image still so fresh inside his head, the promise of that smirk, of the hungry, red eyes and the horns Kiyoomi’s seen oh, so many times in his dreams, in his every nightmare, the crimson tainting his lips and dripping down his chin and-

Atsumu isn’t there anymore.

He breaks into a sprint before he’s even conscious of it, shoving past mourners as they whisper and point, because _look at him, what’s wrong with that guy?_ He body-checks at least six distant relatives he will never meet as he rushes into the bathroom, and distantly he realizes he’s sobbing and his chest is heaving and everything _hurts_. There is no light at the end of the tunnel waiting for Sakusa Kiyoomi. There is no warm embrace waiting for him, no home to return to. The life Komori led, the relationships he formed, the memories he made, these are things lost to Kiyoomi forever. What hurts the most is not that Komori is gone, no, but that he lived so _fully_. His life was full and warm and bright and the horrible ugly feeling bubbling in Kiyoomi’s chest is _jealousy_ , he belatedly realizes. He lived a life of warmth and comfort and then settled into a peaceful, eternal rest at the end of a race well run. _Jealousy._

He eyes his reflection in the mirror, his red rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks. There, in those seconds, half-seconds, that his eyes lock with the marks just above his brow, the contract mark, same as always, the twin moles that forever bind him to the reason for his suffering, he crumbles down. It stares back at him mockingly, a symbol of ownership, like a brand, the stain of an immortal life. He knew, but it still wasn’t enough. The sorrow, so large it threatened to tear through his skin, the melancholy dripping from his fingertips as he runs his fingers over the ink black dots, dragging his nail over them nice and slow, as if he could simply scratch them off. _Ah_ , he thinks, it burns, it _hurts_ , because it does. The flames surround him as he struggles to breathe, suffocating in an endless cycle of mourning and _Atsumu_ and it’s impossible to see anything else. He grabs his head as he braces himself against the counter with his other hand. _Fuck._

There will be no peaceful end to this race Kiyoomi is running. This can only end in violence. Say a tiny meteorite slammed into the prefecture right now, it would be preferable to whatever awaits him and Atsumu at the end of the line.

**4\. the devil is in the details**

Days, weeks, months, years slip by, unbidden, unforgiving. Sakusa Kiyoomi resumes his sleep-walking in his daily life, ignoring the gaping hole in his chest and the gap between sleeping and waking that becomes harder to distinguish every day. When he climbs his bed and gets ready to sleep, the tides inside his chest growing fonder and fonder of the darkness that surrounds him, he prays he won’t wake up to see another morning.

When the sunlight inevitably hits his eyes as it has done every morning for the last hundred years, it’s unwelcome and harsh. Kiyoomi has never been one for mornings, and this one in particular is no different. _Five more minutes, just five._ Thirty minutes later, Kiyoomi unravels himself from tightly wound blankets he had gathered around himself in his unconscious state with a yawn. The alarm clock reads 10:30, and there is a cup of hot coffee waiting for him on the nightstand.

Not as surprising as it should be.

Some mornings, it’s coffee. Other times, it’s the papers on his desk tidied or pictures shifted slightly from their original position. It’s courtesy of the shadow that moves about his home in the dead of night, the ghost that wanders his halls. He is never seen nor heard, but his presence is always felt, a constant companion. He mills about while Kiyoomi sleeps, leaving small offerings like outrageous clothing he’s never seen before hanging in the closet that he would rather die than actually wear or even sometimes breakfast, always still hot by the time Kiyoomi rouses.

As Kiyoomi makes his way to the bathroom, he notices the clothes he stripped off and tossed to the floor in his haste the night before have found their way into the hamper. A hot bath is already drawn, waiting for him, gentle billows of steam filling the bathroom.

He must have known. He always does.

Last night was a hard night for him. He spent hours crying his eyes out on the cool tile floor of his bathroom, drunk and utterly alone in the world. Some nights, the sky caves in on Kiyoomi and the earth shakes and all he is left to do is fall apart. In his desperate and irrational state, he had ripped off his clothes and slung them across the floor, struggling with every breath as he stumbled to the bed. Clutching his chest, he laid awake half-delirious from grief until the exhaustion finally hit, pulling his eyelids down and lulling him to sleep.

There are no traces of last night’s mess now, and the hot coffee and a bath waiting for him can only mean the unseen thing that lurks just out of sight is offering his quiet sympathies. Kiyoomi is as grateful as ever.

He strips off his pajamas, ignoring the fleeting glimpse of his heavy dark circles in the mirror. He sinks into the bath and it’s hot enough to scorch his skin in just the right way, just the way he likes it. The suds caress his skin and wipe away any trace of the disaster he had been the night before, leaving something softer and warmer in its place.

Kiyoomi doesn’t remember crying this much before the contract, back when he was _really_ alive. A hundred years has left Kiyoomi worse for wear, fraying at the seams. He’s greeted by the exact same face in the mirror every morning without fail, despite the fact that he should be a hunched-over, wrinkly old grandpa. The passage of time and the time spent alone, the time spent unchanging, eat at him, feasting on whatever is left of him, engulfing whatever he has left inside and leaving him an empty shell. _Empty_ , Kiyoomi thinks with a chuckle. It’s too apt a term. It feels some days as if he has cried all that he has left to cry, and somehow always manages to prove himself wrong. It’s a reminder that he is _alive_ , that his heart is still beating, that he can _feel_ , because empty shells can’t cry.

He can’t find it in himself to resent Atsumu, the miserable demon who has plagued every waking moment of his eternal life, the one who _gave_ it to him, these days. More than anything, he misses him like a lost limb, shooting phantom pains plaguing him each time he thinks of blonde hair and red eyes. However long he had expected Atsumu to stay away, it hadn’t been twenty years. He hadn’t expected Atsumu to slip into his house a few nights each week to check up on him, he hadn’t thought Atsumu capable of such tender feelings.

He hadn’t thought _himself_ capable of such tender feelings either. The way he smiles at the coffee on the nightstand, made the way he likes best, the way Atsumu _remembers_ what he likes best, feels so horribly domestic and soft he can’t help but acknowledge the grip on his heart. Kiyoomi knows he can’t possibly _really_ be empty, not with the way he’s full of warmth when he thinks of foxy, boyish grins and kink gear as leisure wear. It’s a complicated thing, moving from resentment to something akin to love; the feelings wage war on each other around Kiyoomi’s head, but today, sunk down to his nose in bubbles in a bath he certainly didn’t draw for himself, he can’t help but feel one side has claimed a decisive victory.

He emerges from the tubbing, shivering and mumbling to himself as he fumbles for a towel. The cold air against his skin makes him clench his jaw as he dries off every inch of exposed skin, the soft terry cloth towel rubbing and caressing everywhere it touches. As he brushes his teeth and meticulously styles each curl, his eyes keep trailing over the contract mark. Once a burden, once a brand, now a promise in Kiyoomi’s mind. It’s a promise of Atsumu’s warm embrace waiting for him, the one he had once rejected so fervently, the embrace he thought could never be his. It’s a promise that Atsumu will always return again, eventually. Atsumu has carved out a hole just large enough to make a home for himself in Kiyoomi’s life without him ever realizing, never even knowing until he felt a cool breeze passing through the open wound left by bright red claws that scratch and dig.

Atsumu can’t stay away forever, Kiyoomi knows. He has to come back eventually, and when he does, Kiyoomi won’t let him go so easily for the second time.

The walk to the park is quiet and uneventful, another fall turning the leaves while Kiyoomi himself remains the same, untouched by time. Seasons come and go, slipping through Kiyoomi’s fingers like sand while he watches on helplessly. Existing outside of time, watching everything you knew once change and fall away, is a hell of thing. Being twenty years old in the 70s is not nearly the same as being twenty now, in an era of modernity and convenience. Kiyoomi feels like an old man, feels out of place amongst the youth who welcome him with open arms, unaware he is a fossil that slipped through the cracks. Atsumu allowed him to bend the rules, raised his hand and held the hour hand in place so Kiyoomi wouldn’t change even by another second. The people running around in the park playing ball or jogging or walking their dogs possess a gift they will never truly understand, never fully appreciate. Mortality is a _gift_ , the promise of rest is a _gift_ , but they view the sands of the hourglass as a threat. To die is one thing; to live endlessly, another.

Kiyoomi chooses a bench tucked away in the furthest corner, obscured by the shade of the large tree overhead. A shift in the wind, a touch of static in the air, and Kiyoomi is no longer alone.

“Hiya.”

Coffee and a bagel are unceremoniously dropped on the bench between them.

“What is this?” Kiyoomi raises an apprehensive brow, studying Atsumu’s sheepish smile.

“Yer favorite. Ya can’t stay mad at me forever, Omi-Omi, it’s been twenty years.”

Kiyoomi, despite the warmth and excitement he feels in his chest, decides to play coy a little while longer. Atsumu owes him a real apology. _He_ owes Atsumu a real apology, too.

“I can try,” Kiyoomi says, staring straight ahead at the lives passing in front of him, unaware of the two men in the corner, existing in a world they could never fully understand.

Beneath Atsumu’s smirk lies a hint of insecurity, the way the corners waver and threaten to flicker down and the unease tucked behind liquid gold irises. It sloshes around like stormy seas, threatening to pull Kiyoomi under and never let him up for air.

When Kiyoomi doesn’t say anything further, the corners of his lips take a swift downturn, and his brows furrow together in that way Kiyoomi hates the most. His voice is soft and hesitant when he speaks again, deadly serious. “Sakusa- Omi- Kiyoomi,” he finally settles on, “what I said back then… That was cruel. I didn’t mean any of it, and I know ya were just grievin’. I spoke out of hurt when I should’ve held my tongue, and ‘m sorry. I’ve been missin’ ya like crazy and tryin’ ta figure out how to make things right and-“

“Atsumu.”

Atsumu stops dead in his tracks, waiting patiently for Kiyoomi to continue, but the words won’t come. Kiyoomi doesn’t tell him how grateful he is for Atsumu caring for him, doesn’t tell him how sorry he is for the horrible things he said before, doesn’t tell him how painful being away has been, doesn’t tell him about the gaping hole left in his absence, doesn’t tell him about the long lonely nights spent awake praying for death. Instead, never taking his eyes off the scene in front of him, he inches his hand achingly slowly across the distance between them, threading their pinkies together. Atsumu looks down at their hands, gasping softly and glancing between Kiyoomi’s impassive face and their interlocked pinkies in disbelief. He breaks the contact only momentarily to flip his hand palms up and slide his fingers into Kiyoomi’s, holding on for dear life. They sit in silence, enjoying the wind whistling through the trees with leaves that burn like fire under the midday sun. No one speaks, and Atsumu’s skin burns against his own icy palm. Kiyoomi realizes, hand safely tucked in Atsumu’s own, that his life isn’t over. His heart is _beating_. He thinks that maybe, just maybe, it’s a good day to move forward. Taking Atsumu’s hand, he feels as though he’s facing the edge of the cliff again. He can hear the wind whistling through the trees in the valley below, calling him, welcoming him to rest in a bed among the rocks and grass. A contented smile stretched across his face, eyes closed and arms wide open, he concedes to gravity.

“Why the fuck were you in my house?” Kiyoomi comments offhandedly, jokingly.

Atsumu slides in closer, their thighs brushing and the bagel and coffee long forgotten at Kiyoomi’s other side.

“You ungrateful ass, I knew I shoulda left yer ass to a watery grave in that piece of scrap metal you called a car,” Atsumu says, throwing his head back laughing full and loud, and it’s music to Kiyoomi’s ears. He doesn’t mean it, not with the way he grips Kiyoomi’s hand like a lifeline. Kiyoomi finds himself laughing too, doubled over and clutching at his side as he shoves playfully at Atsumu’s shoulder.

It’s not quite an apology, but it’s enough for now. For both of them.

**5\. the devil we know**

Water droplets swirl down his back, wet curls sticking to his forehead as he steps out of the shower, body shivering when his feet touch the cold floor, lashes beaded with drops he still hadn’t dried off. Sandalwood mist envelops him as he walks, weary of the wet tiles, towards the sink, towards the mirror as he towels off his hair, as he runs his fingers over the dots sprinkled over his forehead, the scars of a contract, the smooth silk that wrapped itself around his wrists and made him kneel in front of an eternal, unchanging, merciless demon. Well. Perhaps not that merciless, if Kiyoomi’s being honest.

He laughs to himself, to the empty bathroom, to the walls that make his voice echo endlessly as he shakes his head. Atsumu, not-so-merciless demon who sleeps holding a pillow, face buried in his blankets, who still whines when Kiyoomi doesn’t allow him to share his bed, who has a thunderous laugh and a soothing touch. It burns, it’s excruciating, but it soothes, its warmth bringing Kiyoomi back from his slumber, a figure hunched over him in the middle of the night with a devilish grin, _‘m hungry, Omi, can we order pizza?_ It’s familiar, the smiles and the soft-spoken words, the way Atsumu’s arms fit so well around his shoulders, the burden of immortality suddenly easier to carry when he giggled that stupid, _stupid_ giggle and pushed him playfully with a huff. It’s awfully domestic, the way Kiyoomi sometimes wakes up to the smell of freshly brewed coffee and to the sound of something sizzling in the kitchen as Atsumu curses under his breath, a muffled _motherfucker_ echoing through his walls as he snuggles closer to his blankets, an easy smile tugging at his lips, a content sigh and a soft giggle escaping through his throat.

His feet slap against the tiles, condensation covering the mirror in a fog, as he makes his way to the vanity. He picks up the toothpaste from its place in the cup, carefully spreading the bright green mint over the bristles. Kiyoomi brushes his teeth carefully, meticulously, as he does all things, his mouth filling with suds. A fleeting thought comes to mind, dissipating as quickly as it forms, that for such a careful person, getting so closely involved with Atsumu is uncharacteristically reckless.

He doesn’t give the thought any credence.

He leans over the sink and spits instead.

The fog in the mirror is gradually lifting, revealing more and more of Kiyoomi’s reflection; he can see the towel around his shoulders, his bare shoulders, the gray sweatpants hanging loosely around his hips, and… and… _a smile._ Inexplicably, his reflection is _smiling_ , despite the fact that Kiyoomi himself is decidedly _not_ smiling. His brows furrow in confusion as he brings two fingers up to touch the corners of his mouth, desperate to confirm what he knows to be true, praying to be wrong. It’s as perplexing as it is terrifying, and he leans in close to the mirror to study it further, when a dark shadow begins to emerge from it, the glass behind it no longer resembling something solid, like ripples across a lake where the figure disrupts the surface. Before he can think, before his mind even has time to process the raw panic in his gut and the fear that burns like ice coursing through his veins, he’s moving. His fist connects with a _crack_ , sending the figure stumbling back into the mirror with a shriek.

A very familiar shriek, actually.

“Omi, what the _fuck!”_ Atsumu’s voice from inside the mirror. He should have known.

Two hands grip the edges of the mirror as he fully pulls himself through, changing shape from shadow to something more solid and human, the Atsumu he knows from long hours spent studying him from the corner of his eye, from staring directly into his eyes.

“Can’t ya take a _joke,_ you absolute _prick_ ,” Atsumu squawks indignantly, rubbing his undoubtedly sore nose where Kiyoomi’s fist had made contact.

“It’s not a joke if it isn’t funny, dickhead.” Kiyoomi’s knuckles are throbbing but he won’t give Atsumu the satisfaction of showing him as much.

“Christ, would it kill ya ta lighten up? Besides, ya knew I was comin’ over.”

While Atsumu speaks, his eyes trail down to Kiyoomi’s bare chest. His eyes follow the water droplets drip from his hair and move in a slow procession down his pecs and abs, _down, down, down_ , just like the direction of his red beady eyes.

Kiyoomi whips around and retreats from the bathroom with a mumbled _whatever_ , desperate to conceal his flushed cheeks and ears.

Stalking off to the kitchen, Atsumu is hot on Kiyoomi’s heels, cursing Kiyoomi and going on about how he is a bad friend. They come to a halt in front of the kitchen counter with Kiyoomi’s back pressed against the edge and his arms folded across his chest, scrolling through a chinese take out menu on his phone.

Atsumu leans over his shoulder, staring down at his phone scream before he coos, “ _Oh,_ Omi-kun yer a _genius_.”

“That would make one of us.”

Atsumu, in his usual childish way, sticks his tongue out and Kiyoomi catches a flash of silver. His hand, for the second time tonight, is faster than his brain, and he takes the tiny silver ball protruding from Atsumu’s tongue between his thumb and forefinger, rolling it back and forth. A little drool is dribbling from the corner of Atsumu’s mouth from holding it open and his cheeks are sakura tinged, making him look uncharacteristically innocent and pliable. Kiyoomi swallows _hard_.

“When did _this_ happen…” Kiyoomi mumbles, eyes trained on the fresh piercing that couldn’t be more than a week old, since Atsumu didn’t have it during his last visit. Snapping back to himself, suddenly filled with white-hot embarrassment, Kiyoomi releases the jewelry and allows Atsumu to snap his mouth closed, turning to the sink to wash his hands.

Atsumu slinks up behind him and wraps his arms around his waist, resting his chin on Kiyoomi’s shoulder. “If ya think this one is so interesting, yer welcome to play with the other ones as well,” he breathes into Kiyoomi’s ear.

Kiyoomi digs his elbow into Atsumu’s ribs, making the demon yelp in pain, stumbling back and clutching his side. “ _Don’t be crass, beast,_ ” he hisses through his teeth.

“Beast?! Who the hell are _you_ callin’ a beast?”

Kiyoomi doesn’t dignify that with a response, turning his attention back to deciding what’s for dinner, batting away Atsumu’s hands and ignoring his blustering cries.

Kiyoomi watches the blue and red lights of the television screen dance across Atsumu’s face in the darkness of the cramped living room from his seat on the cramped, worn blue couch. They’ve been watching some action movie Atsumu couldn’t stop raving about for the last hour, but Kiyoomi couldn’t explain the plot if someone held a gun to his head. He can’t stop tracing the lines of the demon’s sharp, angular features, committing each curve and contour to memory as if for the last time. There are open containers of chinese food left sprawled across the coffee table, where Atsumu’s socked feet are propped up, and it’s such a jarring sight Kiyoomi could almost laugh. He looks so at home like this, among the sounds of an ongoing fight sequence and the smell of kung pao chicken.

If Atsumu weren’t Atsumu, an eternal and morally ambiguous demon, and Kiyoomi weren’t Kiyoomi, a lackluster immortal with a general distaste for life and living, perhaps this would pass for a very normal night for a very normal couple. Perhaps they would wake up together in the same bed, go to work, come home to one another, and share a kiss goodnight before doing the whole thing over again for as long as fate allowed.

Fate is cruel, however. In this life, time that seems infinite at a cursory glance is actually finite, measured and numbered. The sands of the hourglass continue to fall unbidden, as hours become years, as their peace reaches its expiration date. How long could they last, as happily as this? How long did Adam and Eve live happily in the garden before the serpent? There is no rest for the wicked, in the end. Cursed and marked people such as Atsumu and Kiyoomi don’t get happy endings, and tragedy is all but guaranteed. The inevitable tragedy that awaits them seems to Kiyoomi like the distant sound of thunder at a picnic, promising calamity on the horizon. They are two beings forever chained to their individual miseries, the threads of fate spun in such a way to tie them forever to despair. These joys, these pleasures, they are all fleeting, Kiyoomi knows.

“Omi,” he calls, his voice barely a whisper when drowned by the screams and gunshots coming from the television. Kiyoomi hums softly in response, fingers slowly burying themselves in soft golden locks. “Tell me about your life. Your life _before,_ when you were still human.”

He stares down at Atsumu, his head softly resting over his shoulder, but he’s not looking up, eyes glued to the screen. He looks almost fearful, almost as if he’s scared Kiyoomi will get mad, as if he’s scared he’ll refuse, as if he’s scared he’ll refuse _him._ Somehow, Kiyoomi finds himself pulling him even closer, resting his head over the top of his head. Atsumu smells like Kiyoomi, like everything they’ve been through, and it’s enough to make his heart skip a beat or perhaps enough to make it stop for a good five seconds before he’s able to breathe again.

He finds out he doesn’t know where to start.

He could talk about his family, about how he used to have a brother and a sister, about how his parents were loving and how his cousin always spent the weekends dragging him around to a new place. He could talk about his school life and how he hated it when he had to make his way through a crowd of sweaty teens. He could talk about his first love and how it ended before it could even begin. He could talk about his first kiss and how embarrassing it had been, or maybe about how underwhelming it had been to stare at the ceiling after losing his virginity with the thought of _oh, so this is what it feels like._ He could talk about college and the music he liked to listen to when he was still a carefree young adult who didn’t think about death and its greedy hands. He could tell him about where he was going to when his car went over the railing, about the thoughts he had while desperately trying to get his car door to open, about the pain shooting through his limbs whenever he moved, about how warm the blood felt against his skin.

But, somehow, he finds out he doesn’t really want to say anything.

He believes Atsumu already knows it all. Atsumu, who plays with his hair until he wakes up, who pokes his cheeks and with the small dimples that show as soon as his eyes open up to greet him good morning, as soon as he smiles and whispers that _yer the cutest in the mornings, did ya know that?_ Atsumu, who brings him breakfast in bed and drags him to pubs late at night only to have him dance with him again and again and again and to have someone to drag him back home when he can no longer stand up on his own. Atsumu, who complains all the time about how such a high-grade demon shouldn’t be sleeping on the couch or drawing baths for the human he made a deal with, while Kiyoomi merely smirks after sipping his coffee with a whisper of _no one told you to do that, though?_ as Atsumu’s cheeks grow redder and redder with every second that goes by.

Instead of answering questions, Kiyoomi wants to know.

“Were _you_ ever human?”

Atsumu smiles, eyes closing for a split second before he opens them again, still glued to the screen, a foggy veil over them as he nods. It’s barely a movement at all, but Kiyoomi’s learned a lot about him in the last fifty years; he knows Atsumu, he’s memorized his mannerisms and the sounds he makes when something makes him uncomfortable. Right now, it’s like there’s a war raging on inside his chest, the thoughts running through his mind like bullets from an infinitely loaded gun, his claws digging deep into the pillow he holds over his lap, deep enough to tear the fabric, deep enough so that Kiyoomi is no longer able to see them.

Kiyoomi doesn’t push him to talk, doesn’t cease the movements of his fingers in his hair when he hears Atsumu sigh, something akin to melancholic distress disturbing his otherwise serene expression. He looks conflicted, almost scared of the words that might come out of his mouth, as if it truly is a reason for shame, having been human once. Kiyoomi can only wonder what could have been so bad that he had to give away his life to become a monster, sharp-edged and terrifyingly beautiful, charming enough to draw in his prey before digging his claws inside their chests and piercing their hearts. He wonders how many times Atsumu has done the same thing he’s doing with him, the visits and the playful banter, the soft brush of his thumb against his cheeks before he disappears into the night, with someone else. He wonders if he’s ever talked about his life with any of the people he’s made contracts with, if any of them ever had the same kind of mark he proudly displays on his skin.

It’s not jealousy, he tells himself, he’s just curious.

“A long time ago, yeah. I can hardly remember it now, actually.” A beat of silence. “I had a brother once,” he whispers, “and I traded my life for his.”

Oh.

So that’s why he doesn’t dare look up, why he refuses to meet Kiyoomi’s eyes. Kiyoomi is stunned speechless. Suddenly, he’s back in the courtyard of the funeral home, crying and screaming things he only half-means. There are salty tears on his cheeks and a cold wind whips about his wrinkled, dated clothes. He remembers his cruelty vividly in that particular moment, and he remembers it now with new insight, leaving the bitter taste of regret. He didn’t know then. How could he? But then again, how could he have been so self-centered, so selfish as to believe he was the only one who knew the sting of that sort of pain? Atsumu knows loss, even better than Kiyoomi, if that forlorn downturn of his expression is anything to go by. His eyes are glassed over. He’s going to cry. Kiyoomi needs to think fast.

There’s only one thing that comes to mind, one solution.

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi whispers, as if trying not to spook a cornered animal. Atsumu finally, _finally_ turns his head to meet Kiyoomi’s eyes. “Let’s go to bed.”

He rises from his spot and outstretches a hand to Atsumu, watching as he eyes it warily. Kiyoomi has never allowed Atsumu to sleep in his bed. Atsumu always takes the couch.

Tonight, Kiyoomi can’t imagine not holding him close. Call it penance, call it desperation.

Atsumu takes Kiyoomi’s outstretched hand, allowing Kiyoomi to drag him to his feet. He trails behind Kiyoomi down the hall like a silent shadow, his socked feet softly padding against the hardwood. Kiyoomi leads him across the threshold, and stops, suddenly hesitant.

“Second thoughts?” Atsumu looks ready to bolt back through the mirror he came from at the slightest urging.

“No,” Kiyoomi vigorously shakes his head. “It’s just…”

“Just what?”

“You can’t sleep in that.” Kiyoomi gestures to the harness strapped across his chest.

“I can.”

“You shouldn’t.”

Kiyoomi hesitates for just a moment more before taking a resolute step forward towards Atsumu. He raises his trembling hands, gently undoing each latch before letting it drop to the floor. Kiyoomi scampers away into his closet, returning just a moment later with tacky christmas pajama bottoms in hand.

Atsumu finally wears a ghost of his usual trademark smirk, one inquisitive brow raised.

“It’s all I have.” Kiyoomi shrugs. “Go put them on.”

Atsumu moves to drop his shorts and Kiyoomi grabs his hands, stopping him in the act.

“Not in here,” Kiyoomi groans, shoving him carelessly towards the master bath, “in _there._ ”

When Atsumu returns, Kiyoomi is already settled into bed, the only light in the room coming from the lamp on the nightstand. Atsumu stops just shy of crawling in, as if giving Kiyoomi an out in case he changed his mind in the last two minutes. Kiyoomi meets his eyes and doesn’t look away. He’s never been more sure of anything than he is that Atsumu belongs in this bed, with Kiyoomi.

He slides in under the covers and Kiyoomi cuts off the light, scooting in close enough to rest his forehead against Atsumu’s. Atsumu reaches down to grab his hand, intertwining his rough, calloused fingers with Kiyoomi’s long, delicate ones. He can hear Atsumu’s breathing, quick and shallow. His own isn’t much better.

Three words hang in the air, unspoken, unacknowledged. They are both aware of their presence in the space between them, but neither is willing to address it, too afraid of what it could mean for them both. Those three words, this one feeling, will ultimately lead them to their demise, the one they can both see just ahead.

Kiyoomi remembers a quote suddenly, from a poem he read some time in adolescence. He hadn’t understood it at the time, and only now in what should be the twilight of his life, finally understands, as he gazes into Atsumu’s red, kaleidoscope eyes in the darkness.

_These violent delights have violent ends._

**+1. the devil no more**

It is by all accounts an average Sunday night when Kiyoomi ravages his apartment for an odd assortment of supplies. After a mad dash that lasted approximately two hours, he eyes his finds in satisfaction: a floor length mirror, a white candle, and a small kitchen knife. He’s not sure if his plan will even work, if these household items will be sufficient for such an intricate ritual as he has planned, but it’s worth a shot.

Summoning demons, especially one so powerful, is not as simple as the movies would have you believe. Demonic attachment seems much easier to come by, if Kiyoomi’s own personal experience is anything to go by. After hours of mindlessly scrolling through google, falling down so many different rabbit holes, link after link, he finally came across a promising summoning spell with a very serious warning and disclaimer attached. He stops for a second, falling flat on his ass on the floor, running his hands over the length of his face. Kiyoomi is a practical man. He exists within the confines of science and reason. He does _not_ summon demons.

Not until today, anyway.

He needs to talk to Atsumu, badly enough to make himself feel like an absolute dunce googling “how to summon a demon” like an edgy thirteen year old in his parent’s basement. The sand of the hourglass has trickled down to next to nothing. Kiyoomi is at the end of his rope. The human body is not built for a life such as this, the wear and tear of a life lived long past its expiration. To Kiyoomi, it has only felt like a half life, lived on the run with the one who owns his soul as his only companion. Kiyoomi is tired, his body is weary. Enough is enough.

In the dark shadows of the living room, illuminated only by the moonlight streaming in through the large bay window, Kiyoomi sits cross legged on the floor in front of the mirror. He looks at his own face in the mirror, as though his own face holds the answer as to whether this is right or wrong. It doesn’t, of course, but it’s too late for that now, when he has already memorized so many lines of an ancient tongue long forgotten by the society it was built upon.

He picks up the small steak knife, wincing as he drags the blade across his palm to make a small diagonal incision, just as the website had said. It stings, blood trickling from the cut and onto the fabric of his jeans. He lifts his hand to the mirror, drawing out the shape of a pentagram in his own blood. Picking up his lighter with his other hand, he lights the white candle in front of the mirror and begins to chant. He isn’t aware of the words that roll off his tongue, not fully, his mouth moving on autopilot from the embarrassing number of hours dedicated to memorizing the lines. A breeze kicks up in the living room, blowing back his dark curls as he chants faster, until the candle blows out in a flash.

Behind him in the mirror stands Atsumu, eyes wide with concern and confusion.

“Asteroth,” Kiyoomi addresses him without turning around.

“Omi-kun…” Atsumu trails off in shock, red eyes wide at the use of his real name.

“It was hard at first, finding your real name. When I was finally able to put two and two together, it just made sense.” Kiyoomi rises to his feet, taking long, purposeful strides towards Atsumu. He cups his cheek gently with his uninjured hand. “A beautiful name, well-suited for someone as beautiful as you.”

He pretends he doesn’t see Atsumu’s cheeks lighting up in the sweetest pink shade he’s ever seen, pretends he doesn’t see the way his hands curl into fists by his sides for a second before he blinks once, twice, and clenches his jaw, distress written all over his face. _Why,_ he seems to be asking, eyes wandering from the mirror to his face, from his face to the bloody knife left on the sink, to the remnants of a candle and, finally, to the wound on his flesh.

He looks lost, almost like he’s been aimlessly wandering for years on his own and has just found another person to walk along the road with him. He looks terrified, of his presence or the fact that Kiyoomi now knows something he’s kept hidden for so long, he doesn’t know, doesn’t bother to. Atsumu might have kept his demon name a secret for a reason, a good reason, perhaps, but then again, Kiyoomi has never been one to sit still when he wants something, anyway.

“Omi-kun, why did ya do… all of this?” He gestures to the gash in Kiyoomi’s palm and the mirror.

 _Because I wanted to see you,_ he doesn’t say.

 _Because I’m tired,_ he doesn’t say.

 _Please,_ he doesn’t say.

“You know I wouldn’t have if it wasn’t important.”

“So tell me,” he chokes out, his voice strained and weird and nothing like the sassy remarks Kiyoomi’s grown so fond of over the last century by his side, “What’s so important, then?”

“You made a promise, Asteroth. When you appeared to me, you told me that one day you would come to collect my soul, to claim your end of our bargain.” Atsumu’s face lights up in horror and recognition, suddenly realizing what it is Kiyoomi’s driving at. Kiyoomi leans down to whisper in his ear, so softly. “When do you plan to make good on your word?”

Kiyoomi can hear Atsumu’s soft sobs before he sees it, pulling back to look him directly in the face. Big, fat tears roll down his red cheeks, and Kiyoomi wishes with everything in him that there was another way, but there is only one outcome. There was only ever one outcome. Atsumu almost looks like a child now, shoulders shaking with the violent sobs that claw their way out of his throat, his nose red and runny as he sniffles and struggles to keep his tears at bay. Kiyoomi can almost hear his voice, playful and teasing, _ugh, so embarrassing,_ before a giggle bursts through.

But, of course, that doesn’t come.

Instead, all he can hear are his wails, sobs and choked hiccups, murmurs of his name as he clings to him, claws buried in the soft cloth of his shirt, tugging at it and bringing him close as if that is the only way he knows how to communicate. He looks up at him in distress, eyes wide and desperately darker as he tugs and tugs and tugs. His lips wobble as he struggles to find the words, to make it make sense inside his head, to force his tongue to move in the right direction so that the sounds can come out properly instead of as a jumbled out mess of phonemes.

At any other time, Kiyoomi would have laughed.

“I can’t, I can’t, I _can’t,_ you know I can’t and you know exactly why not,” he whispers, high-pitched and childish, closing his eyes when Kiyoomi touches his cheek, when he tilts his head to the side to force Atsumu to look him in the eye, “ _Please,_ don’t make me do this, I can’t, I can’t. This is not… I never wanted to do this, I can’t do it.”

“But that’s exactly why you _should_ ,” Kiyoomi counters, imploring. “If you care about me, if you truly care about me, you won’t deny me this. I’m _tired_ , Atsumu.”

Atsumu steps back from Kiyoomi’s grasp, furiously wiping at his swollen eyes, betrayal burning behind his eyes, disbelief tugging at his lips and forcing them into an incredulous smirk. “How could ya be so _goddamn selfish_ to ask this of me? Knowing how I feel about you, you would ask me to kill you. Did you even think of me when you came to this conclusion? Did ya even spare me a passing thought?”

Kiyoomi rushes forward to grip him by the shoulders, forcing Atsumu to face him again. It hurts, seeing him flinch, desperately trying to escape, to find a loophole in the summoning ritual so he can justify his escape. There aren’t any, Kiyoomi has made sure of it. “You have to believe this is not the end. You know I could never leave you alone for so long. There are other lives, other lives waiting for us where we could have a chance at _real_ happiness. I need you to believe that as I do.”

Atsumu doesn’t respond, instead falling apart in Kiyoomi’s arms. For a minute, or maybe an hour or two, they stay like that, both crying, both cursing Fate and each other. For being rash, for being unfair, for making it impossible for them to live without the other. _You offered me the deal,_ Kiyoomi reasons, and Atsumu only sniffles before replying _And ya shouldn’t have accepted it._ Kiyoomi clings tightly to Atsumu, so afraid to let go, even though the prospect of being free of his shackles is all he desires, even though letting go is the only thing he’s been able to think about at every waking moment.

He’s tired.

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi chokes out, voice hoarse, “I’m scared.”

He nods from where he buried his face on Kiyoomi’s chest, his tears forming a pattern on the shape of his cheek over the cloth. He’s trembling, Kiyoomi notices when he looks down, his entire body shaking as if the mere thought of having to let go of the leash wrapped around Kiyoomi’s neck is enough to make him want to crawl and curl up against himself enough to make it seem like he’s invisible. If it meant he wouldn’t ever have to drop it, Kiyoomi thinks, he might have done just that. Had it been any other person, he believes he would have done it. Not to him, though, never to him.

He’s told him once that _I shoulda killed ya,_ that _it doesn’t make sense that you’re still around,_ that _most people only get five years before we come to collect their souls, but I couldn’t bring myself to take yours._ Kiyoomi remembers the sweet gleam inside his eyes as he snuggled closer, as he softly nuzzled the side of his neck with a mellow sigh. _You must like me a lot,_ Kiyoomi had answered, while Atsumu laughed before humming, _Wouldn’t you like to know…_

“You won’t feel a thing, I swear.”

He says it like the words hurt him. He’s telling the truth, Kiyoomi knows that, because his hands are suddenly curled into fists over his chest, his fingers digging into his shirt and forcing the infinity between them to shrink, forcing Kiyoomi to take an impossible step forward, forcing their bodies to somehow get closer than they ever were, and Kiyoomi can’t help but snort softly when Atsumu buries his head in the crook of his neck, when he mouths his name over and over again over the sensitive skin right under his ear, when he sighs and whispers that _this is so unfair, so unfair, I can’t do this, why would you do this to me._

His breath is hot against his skin, it’s the first thing Kiyoomi notices.

He’s suddenly acutely aware of Atsumu’s presence, of the way his skin burns just the way he likes it, and there is nothing else holding him back. He’s summoned him, he’s asked for compensation, for Atsumu to keep his promise, to pay his end of the bargain. _It goes both ways,_ Atsumu had told him once, _we can’t do anything if the other doesn’t do anything. Humans are treacherous creatures, too._ At the time, Kiyoomi didn’t want to push him into talking, seeing how hollow his eyes looked, how anxious he seemed to be.

Now, finally, he’s going to take advantage of that.

Sakusa Kiyoomi can be a treacherous creature, too, you know?

“Can I ask for a favor?”

Atsumu doesn’t even hesitate before mumbling out, “Anything.”

Kiyoomi pulls back to look at Atsumu, teary-eyed, puffy lips and red face, in the circle of his arms. He looks vulnerable in a way Kiyoomi has never seen before, and the mere sight of his tear-stained cheeks makes his heart clench painfully inside his chest. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. He’s never wanted this, this suffering, this longing for someone, for something, he knew deep down he could never have. It’s horrible, being mortal and somehow finding yourself walking the path of an immortal life. It’s tiring, consuming, everlastingly dreadful. And yet, Kiyoomi found himself wishing for more despite the complaints of his own body, wishing for another day, for another smile, another brush of his thumb against his cheek, anything he could possibly get.

But he’s greedy, too greedy.

“Kiss me. Please, _please_ kiss me. I’ve wanted you for so long, so please kiss me like this isn’t the end, like we have all the time in the world.”

Atsumu widens his eyes, breath hitching as a gasp bursts through, his entire body shaking as a shiver runs through his spine. Surprise, Kiyoomi notices, the good kind of surprise, shines brightly behind his eyes. He nods, slowly dipping his head down to press a chaste kiss to Kiyoomi’s injured palm before bringing both of his hands up to cup Kiyoomi’s face and haul him in. His lips are soft, so soft, and he tastes like salty tears and _Atsumu_ , like the shots they order and the coffee he brews the way Kiyoomi likes best. The feeling of him, of his warmth, of all the things Kiyoomi has ever wished for is enough to bring on a fresh round of tears as he tangles his fingers in Atsumu’s soft blonde tresses. Kiyoomi can’t get close enough, just like that night in the bar, just like that night in his bed, the insignificant millimeters between their bodies painfully stretching into infinity as they struggle to hold onto each other. It’s always been Atsumu, even when Kiyoomi desperately wished it wasn’t. Atsumu, with his easy smiles. Atsumu, with his warm hands and sharp jabs. _Atsumu. Atsumu. Atsumu._ His eternity, his undoing. _Atsumu._

He doesn’t know how long it has been, his mouth parting and giving way for Atsumu to devour him entirely like he so desperately wished he would, like he so desperately _feared_ he would. Funny, he thinks now as he gasps over his lips, as he allows him to drag his teeth over his bottom lip, how terrifying it is to want someone so much you throw all rationality and self-preservation down the drain because nothing could ever compare to having him _fully_ like this, gasping and whimpering against his lips.

When he finally pulls away, he looks fearful, his voice cracking as he asks, “Are you ready?”

“No,” Kiyoomi answers honestly.

Atsumu looks hurt as he takes a deep breath, tears filling his eyes again. “You don’t have to do this. We can work something out, I can do some research and we’ll-”

“I do. There’s no other way.”

Kiyoomi means it when he says that.

His body is slowly starting to give up, and it has been for a while now. He wasn’t meant for immortality, he never was, but perhaps thinking about leaving Atsumu all on his own had made him give up on his pursuit of death. It’s almost ironic, he thinks now, as Atsumu stares up at him with puppy eyes, trying to convince him _not_ to give away his life when just a hundred years ago he was the one proposing a deal to him. It’s almost ironic, how he’s the one who looks terrified of the idea of having to take his soul when he was the one who suggested the deal.

It hurts him to say it, but there’s no other way around it, not anymore.

“Couldn’t you…. Couldn’t you just be happy with me, like this? Can’t this be enough? Can’t I be enough for you?”

 _I am happy,_ he wants to say, _but it’s not enough._

 _You are enough,_ he wants to say, _but I can’t keep doing this._

“Not like this, not while I’m cursed,” he whispers softly as their foreheads touch, “Not while my body and soul are weak. There _will_ be a time for us, Atsumu. I believe that. I’m yours, I always have been, and always will be. Can you trust me?”

He gulps, eyes drifting upwards to where the curse mark resides. He almost winces when he registers it, when he sees the very reason why Kiyoomi is now shackled to a life he never really asked for, when he realizes he’s the one who put him through it when he could have walked away from him and left him to his own devices. _We disrupt the natural course of life,_ he had said once, _and that’s why we’re the bad guys._ If Kiyoomi didn’t know him as well as he does, he’d say he definitely looks the part, smirk hanging from his lips and bright hair complimenting the leathery outfits he still hasn’t grown out of.

Now, though, the only thing he sees when he looks at him is love, raw and simple.

“I trust you, Kiyoomi,” he whispers back, “and that’s why I will do this for you. I will release you, even against my better judgment.”

Kiyoomi laughs softly, breaking the tension filling the air between them with a shake of his head, a soft brush of his nose against Atsumu’s, because _oh, finally._ It’s the way he tried making his voice sound detached and cold, but ended up sounding like he’s trying his best not to cry. He doesn’t blame him. In fact, he feels the tears stinging his eyes again, but this time they’re not the bad kind of tears.

“What could possibly be funny right now?” Atsumu cocks his head in confusion, feigning anger despite being betrayed by the corner of his mouth being tugged up, up, up until his entire face has been contorted into the face of the Atsumu he’s come to love, the person who made his monochrome immortal days a bit more bearable.

“That’s the first time you’ve ever called me by my name.”

Suddenly, Atsumu is laughing too, a mix of three thousand emotions flashing through his face, eyes wide and scrunched up nose as he wheezes out a soft, “Oh. I guess it is.”

In the midst of their laughter, a melody known to their ears only, Kiyoomi feels his heart flip with the realization that this is more than he ever wished for, the way he fits so nicely in his embrace, the way his laughter sounds so sweet now, complimenting his own harsh one, and the way his lips feel so soft against the skin of his neck. He realizes it’s not about raw, naked desire, but something purer, something he was sure he’d lost in the moment Atsumu had placed the mark over his skin. He didn’t lose it, he realizes now, because he never had it before. It’s because of Atsumu and his stupid jokes, because of Atsumu and his nonsensical fashion sense, because of Atsumu and all of the night they spent curled up against each other, sharing secrets in the form of whispers and lingering, scorching touches, that he finally gets to know what it means.

Love, he realizes, is standing right in front of him.

“I love you, Atsumu.”

He voices it like it’s nothing, as if the words don’t weigh anything, and perhaps they really don’t, not when Atsumu looks up at him with a coy smile adorning his features, when his cheeks start to slowly redden, when he looks down and then up again, his hands trembling softly in what Kiyoomi prefers to believe it’s excitement. He says it once, two, three, four and then five thousand times, cupping Atsumu’s face in his hands and planting kisses to the sides of his mouth, to his cheeks, the tip of his nose, everywhere he can reach as if he’s the one marking him now, as if he has the power to bind their souls together through the thousands of kisses he’s throwing onto him.

Atsumu giggles softly as he replies, “I love you, Kiyoomi,” as he wraps his arms around his neck, fingers buried in his curls and claws resting over his head. He kisses him, chastely, slowly, as if he’s not about to drag Kiyoomi’s soul right out of his body as he once promised he would, as if he doesn’t mind the pain inside his chest, as if nothing can ever disrupt this moment. And it’s true, Kiyoomi thinks, because he’s not scared anymore. Slowly, Atsumu once again cradles Kiyoomi’s face between his palms, pulling his forehead down towards his lips. “Goodnight, my love.”

Kiyoomi smiles, eyes closing against his will. “Goodnight, Atsumu.”

Atsumu places a long, lingering kiss to the curse mark just above Kiyoomi’s brow. _We do have all the time in the world,_ he hears him whisper as his body slowly loses its strength. _I will always love you, in this life and every one after that._ Kiyoomi smiles again, weaker this time, as he allows his body to melt into his arms, running towards the abyss beyond. Through his last breath, he swears he can still hear Atsumu calling out to him, tears dripping over his face and down his neck with the promise of another life, another love, something stronger than what they had, even more than the things they couldn’t allow themselves to wish for, because, in the end, _my eternity belongs to you._

**Author's Note:**

> come yell at/with us on twitter! (´꒳`)
> 
> you can find bella [here](https://www.twitter.com/aaIphard)!
> 
> you can find em [here](https://www.twitter.com/flowerboyomi)!
> 
> (we promise a happy ending. _eventually._ )


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